an inexhaustibly long queue of

devils, decked out with their spin on

evil.

mugging their motherless faces--

all holding a  bouquet of black velvet

flowers.

some noshing on them, some thwapping

the devil in front of them over the head.

filing one by one into a small yinmn blue

room.

to take headshots for sacred auditions.

a table knife files its teeth

across a stale loaf of bread.

left imbedded enough to

be concealed by the crust.

its handle juts out, reharnessing

a grip that is no longer there.

a dusting of breadcrumbs line

both sides of the knife, &

an absentminded return to visibility

on the table.

a clock hanging on the kitchen wall

fixates on this discarded still life--

concentrating its repression.

bending the nail that sends it to the

floor--as an accompanying piece.

a ravening intensity wants an

ongoing plane after peak experience.

there's a lopsidedness that slinks off

what evenly secures bliss.

this faithful deformity starts to show

up earlier & earlier--before arriving.

thru the inevitable dread of what it

will throw off.

there's a tap on dark's back--

ad infinitum.

it always turns around in response.

as if at the edge of a bed--the stimulus

of this gentle touch is the light it can

see coming.

let X=(a sky)=(The Sky)...flying monkeys

clogging it, duress above a forest

canopy.

whacking wings & weighted feet descending

thru the pieced puzzle of top tier leaves.

raining sloshes thrashed with *******--

the sound of their flock's forced entry.

free for all guttural whoops on the forest floor,

formidable wings spread and withdrawn every

which way.

no apprehension of Oz's legendary four to be

had, just a new settlement long after their ruler

turned into a puddle of water.

let X=(a forest)=(The Forest).

eaten by her own stride, city blocks

half-lit as country lanes, her gloomy

covenant with diurnal & nocturnal

coup de grace.

a notch taller than short, stick-thin,

dragging around a hag's last birthday--

face bald as an egg.

tattered habit--cowl over her head...whose

black cloth drapes down as if producing

antiquated photographs of oblivion.

a strong wind gust rips back her cowl--

loosing petals from the cherry blossom

wreath she wears, as it rests crookedly.

as a serpent sleeps ahead of the

departed.

limp under flashes of yellow.

stretched to meet the ground it will

cover throughout its incarnation--

without moving.

its blood icily curled up into drifting

*****, trickled over by warm effluxes.

a stone in its mouth, a rose in its stomach.

peeled away.

this outward ****** that visits

us--after cold buckles when its

interminable rites have been read.

this visitor--right from the heart,

going right for the heart...throws us

into that central fire.

April is concomitant with the abrupt

feel of flame, all dormancy goes up.

stalled light--

a pallid break not to make

day.

forever this--bedridden grey

staring out from the world.

clay roused from cinders--twitching

before disjointed  movements.

similar to 19th century electric

shocks administered to deceased

frogs.

a realm of colorblind variances to

wakefulness--densify the fog of these

peoples.

whose trailing opiates of sleep rapidly

play their eyes beneath lids--smudge marks

on a colorless palette.

wasps tap at windows with

long poisonous splinters, blanked

backward by a clear barrier.

not often detracted.

sideswiped by illustrated

howls blown as gradients of

emptiness.

spitting sparse raindrops, &

wearing the fragrantly cocktailed

rub of a garment out of doors.

vivid to the sense of smell, as if

brought indoors.

a shadow marionette of an

anthropoid, is controlled by superstrings.

it is bound to the outermost groove

of a blackhole, whose last audible

recording sounds from it.

exclusively sent down to the surface

of deep sea oceans across the earth.

occasionally overawed fisherman will

see the performance of its danse macabre

when dawn's most brilliant.

becoming incontinent when hearing the

extinction of sound via song.

letter block houses form a word--

every time one of its occupants guess the

word death is thinking of.

absurd as in their manner to define--

these naked giants that rise with the salt of

the earth & fall with the rain.

unable to miss one another thru tinsy niceties

& fashionable rags.

hide becomes the operative word, like: applause

to a live audience.

spot-check survival prods at their peace--as auric

toxins coarse & compile like bowel movements.

as if they're put to: The Question by Grand Inquisitors...

tortured until they confess: I'm fulfilled.

an archway with ivy bangs, glass cuts

another archway with ivy bangs.

dangling from the foreheads of a gothic

tunnel.

magnifying feet that have masticated

undergrowth & path.

the metamorphose of a human animal,

whose keenness still rings in the ears--

while ****** into the pressure of the tunnel.

a soundproof & sound-enhancing paradox,

that spacewalks limbs.

coupled with the aerodynamic windbreaks of

cars, riding the back of its modest overpass.

then the emergence to a connective forest

path--as if cleansed before a consequent

afterworld.

a spider's minced eyes--

studded gemstones

whose beaty twinkles

reflect suspension.

immaculately pinned to

the molding that draws

down the line of a corner.

in a room where two walls

meet--the imperceptible

musicality of its web, playing

a number to be consumed.

Botero's ballooning

figurations parade

into Giacometti's studio.

greeted by emaciations

that seem cast in disheveled

breadlines.

as with a vomitus

start from bed--

the melted voices of

the mind moonlighting

the wee hour of a body.

sectioned off from what

retired it--so countercurrents

of alarm may impress

something that has happened.

though not yet.

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.

the amorphous

evolutions of a single

cloud are made to

happen at once.

until it breaks out of

the sky's barrier--as

a negative space.

which funnels it

complete.

sallow outer shells of lamplight

shiver fragile lines of light--

to the wall.

hardly palatable to the clam juice

residuals of late light, airbrushed

by a rain even more coy than a

fine mist.

as afterbirth-roots are fleshed out

by a chill, insisting on leaping

backward more than a few weeks.

twelve pointed hats

lower over the silver pan

of her High North reclusion.

set down.

she stir fries the vegetative

chants of a clockwork coven.

an aroma fills the forest...

the unachievable balance between

decay & delectability.

the ground/sidewalks/streets

are usually checkered fluctuations

that accelerate into vortical pits.

then are spit out.

as if not being where one is--

consequentially proceeding toward:

having not been.

yet, as it seems currently...the weight

of the entire world settles, & an

existential foothold shoots blocked

information thru the crown.

a raven is stitched as

with the leatherbound

trackwork of a baseball.

its beak is like a mangled

dagger, resembling uncut

fingernails for a lifetime.

its eyes are enlarged tapioca

*****, bursting milky residue.

it perches on tree roots--as

it suckles on soil & attempts

to rip its wings from underworld

mending.

the thick of thick,

thickens---the thin of

thin, thins.

as said, in all--as a tree.

as trees.

subject to inkblot cavities of nightly

bluffing.

encompassed by wind--

what the invisible relies on

as a sound which's more

than a single sound.

the sun's obese, plasmic

belly--is getting flowers

stuck to it like barnacles.

a buddha that'll undoubtedly

laugh them off.

an aeon from root to pistil.

kingdoms of reality

banish vagaries & laud

fixity.

so passable with slight

deviations--unnoticed

by hawkeye sanity.

as with the accountability

of a thing--to be left as it

was left.

until kingdoms of reality

are lain siege--gross in

apparency as rubble to

mind, mind to rubble.

boar by name, inscrutable.

bit off its mouth, with its mouth--

to get to an apple seated on its

drooling tongue.

enchambered by tusks...violent

snap jaw breaks thru eyepopping

****** paralysis.

somewhere between spit & silver platter...

game & fixings.

the boar was wrenched from the terminus

of sleep--to put back to sleep the festivity

of its flesh.

once made aware of it.

the sound of grainy footage

popping like rice crispy treats--

as time says: ahh.

these open vaults that spare no

detail, change underlying with

permanence.

easily recognizable neighbor

composites, cramming a wink

with volumes of standing impressions.

the genesis of a:

Crandall Typewriter,

hits its ornamental lettering

in its cathedral.

retouches of frozen fingertips--

made to return to those irresistible

keys.

nook, silken tap--a decisive rake of

blent sound.

seepage of ink on crisp paper.

the sun squares off the tiles of northern

European roofing--with the bucking

prims of tucked shadows.

the shred-throat jellied gurgles of

starlings, rehashing into piercing tweets

throughout the whitening gold of dusk.

the central tutelage of a silence, outlined

by sounds of inbreaking traffic.

there's an ache for

every ambrosial brick

worked out like a tooth.

so synergistic commons

can band the prolix of

agape...springtime.

a string of diamonds liquify

from the film of one less sky--

its absence emptying jewel boxes.

subsiding hushes that return

right before they permanently

fade--as the process automatically

resumes.

slant elegancies of gently ground

diamonds, trying on rain from window

to mirror.

a phosphene vase

draws itself--with

a pastel outline of:

violet purple/jade green/

ochre orange.

Venus' long fuchsia legs

kicking out from its lip.

as she takes root--headfirst.

a fire the height of a mountain

experiences insomnia on a bed

of ash.

imagine if that mountainous fire

were split in half--verticality met

with an ashen horizontality.

which provides for a Dantesque

floodgate of ascending & descending

beings.

during the: Teatro alla Scala's

opening night (August 3, 1778).

Antonio Salieri's opera:

L' Europa rinconoscuita, a

chandelier so happened to

crash down...because all the

attendees were staring out at

one another with binoculars.

at the same time.

a ten foot sasquatch in

Montana's wilderness

listens to Beethoven's: Fifth.

he once found it an open

dumpster in town.

it was a pair from the 80s--

tomato-red in color, those

cottony earmuff-size ones

they used to produce.

he's swaying back & forth,

throwing around his massive

meat-hooks, the way that great

composer would.

Van Gogh's: Yellow House

was one of the coziest dwellings

of all time.

everything was touched with a

warmth, not to mention his

brilliant usage of Japanese

print coloration.

what a uniquely gracious

sacrifice, our Pinocchio

made--when he snapped

off the carrot of his nose.

on a land of abandon.

death's apparatus

hunches on the broad

of your back...

kicking in the two of

your ears.

with a whisper.